Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Wishing all a very happy, healthy, prosperous and blessed 2015. Thanks to everyone for their continued support; keep those cards and letters coming! And stay tuned right here! 2015 will bring more stories and poems, plus more romance (just click the image to the right), another book, and a few surprises. And oh, just a hint: my other site "Here For A Season" will host a salute to romance all month long this February. Stories, music, poetry, romance and more! Check it out starting Feb 1. And look for a new story right here in January.

So, whatever your plans:

Partying like it's 1955...

...1965...

...or 1975...

Happy New Year!!!

Thanks to my good friends at The Video Beat! Check out their great selection of movies and more! Just click here: THE VIDEO BEAT And be sure to tell them BJ sent you!

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

Wednesday, December 24, is my birthday... yes, Christmas Eve. Being a Christmas kid is kinda strange, and frustrating. Often you are forgotten, even by family members. And when they do remember, the last minute gifts are often gaily wrapped in very suspicious looking red and green. And don't believe the myth about twice as many presents. That one big box from Uncle Bob and Aunt Jenny has a tag that reads: To Billy, Happy Birthday and Merry Christmas. Having a birthday at Christmas is kinda like having no birthday at all. But, then again, maybe that's why I still look, feel and act so young!

Whatever the reason, it's my birthday and I will be celebrating it the night of the 24th (along with Christmas) at Conor Byrne Bar on Ballard Ave. here in Ballard. The last few years friends, friends of friends and fellow softballers have gotten together for a fun pot luck dinner/party put on by my buddy Keyoni. The evening benefits orphan kids and all are invited to join. Including you! You don't even have to bring me a present.

Hope to see your face in the crowd. But even if you can't make it you can celebrate along with me by clicking the link below... you figure out the meaning ;)

Peace and love to all this holiday season! More stories, more poems, more romance, a new book and lots of surprises yet to come in 2015!

Fighting had been heavy in recent
weeks. The Viet Cong were determined to make this Veterans Day a memorable and
bloody one for the US.

The jungle plains around Bu Dop, a
strategic village on the Cambodian border, were normally quiet. Occasionally,
the enemy crossed the border, made their way around behind the village, and then
snuck back over in a flanking maneuver from the west. The small bands of
guerillas and mercenaries were lightly armed and not well organized. They made
hit and run raids on supply convoys or set IED’s – Improvised Explosive Devices
– for patrols around Saigon.

But the past few weeks saw a sharp
increase in hostilities in the area between the capitol city and Bu Dop, one
hundred klicks to the north. These were seasoned troops, North Vietnamese
regulars, equipped with Russian made assault weapons as well as mortars and
shouldered rocket launchers supplied by the Chinese. The surprise escalation
caught US forces off guard, and causalities were mounting. Frightened locals
flooding into Saigon clogged vital roads, making a bad situation worse.

Sgt. Ryan wiped his forehead with
the sleeve of his fatigue shirt. He looked at the stain left by the combination
of sweat, grime and camouflage grease paint. It was the rainy season in
Southeast Asia. Like most of the men, Ryan ignored the army issued poncho. In
the downpours common to the area, the protective cover felt hot, heavy and
cumbersome. There was little one could do to stay dry. Rains fell like a
violent steam shower in the dense jungle. Foot fungus; damp, malfunctioning
weapons, and cold, wet meals were a fact of life while on patrol.

Sgt. Ryan looked around. He took a grim
mental count of the men in his command. When he set out seven days ago they
numbered twenty one, split into three squads: Alpha, Delta and Echo. What was
once Echo squad laid scattered several klicks behind along with some two dozen
dead VC. The thirteen remaining battle weary GI’s, including three wounded,
were headed back to base camp.

“What the hell am I doing here?”
Ryan muttered to himself for about the thousandth time. He adjusted the M-16
slung over his left shoulder. A year ago he was studying automotive mechanics
at Lincoln Tech in Philadelphia, and engaged to his childhood sweetheart Carol
Sawyer.

Ryan relaxed against a tree as his
men filed past. He thought about Carol. He used to have a picture of her. But
like everything in this lousy forsaken jungle, it succumbed to the rain and
humidity, crumbling in his hands one night as he pulled it from his breast
pocket.

But no amount of rain could blur its
image tattooed in Ryan’s mind. Or the memory of the day she gave it to him.

Ryan graduated at the top of his
class at Lincoln Tech. Then his deferment ran out and Uncle Sam came calling.
Carol was a freshman at Villanova University. The night before Ryan left they
drove to the Springton Reservoir in his Dodge Coronet. It was their spot, about
thirty yards from the boat ramp, a clearing between two old pine trees by the
water’s edge. As they sat and talked, watching an orange moon rise over the
frosted water, a pine cone dropped, denting the hood of the muscle car. Ryan
was furious, jumping out and vowing to chop the offending tree down.

Laughing, Carol ran a hand through
his collar length wavy brown hair. The simple, affectionate act had an instant
calming effect on Ryan. Carol’s touch always affected him that way.

Hand in hand they wandered down to
the water’s edge. It was there Carol gave him the snap shot of her. In it she
wore his orange and black high school jacket. Long strands of golden rod hair
tumbled over one shoulder partially covering the letter he earned in varsity
baseball. Now that hair shimmered like a halo from the moonlight reflecting off
the tranquil water. Carol looked like an angel. Ryan thought so the first time
he saw her back in the fourth grade.

“I have something for you, too,”
Ryan said. He held out the keys to the red Coronet convertible. “I left some
instructions in the glove box. Make sure you use only Sunoco 260, and change
the oil every three months. She likes…”

Carol accepted the keys putting a
finger to his lips. “Pennzoil 20W50,” she said, smiling up at him. “I know. You
forget I’ve spent as much time under her as you have. Sometimes I’m not sure
which of us you love more.”

She took her finger from his lips
and they kissed. Later, alone in her bedroom, Carol cried herself to sleep.

Despite his conflicting feelings
about the war, Ryan determined to make the best of his service time. With
typical military logic, the army completely ignored his mechanical aptitude and
love of anything with a motor and wheels. Eight weeks basic training at Fort
Dix, New Jersey, was followed by a grueling ten weeks in infantry school. Ryan
and five others were offered a chance to receive further training in
explosives. One of them was Kurt Taylor, Ryan’s lifelong friend and former
rival for Carol’s affections.

The two emerged as E-4’s,
Specialists Fourth Class, experts in explosives and demolition. After a short
leave, they found themselves attached to the 1st Cavalry. It was
then the friends discovered, despite the mechanized designation and the
silhouetted horse’s head which graced their shield shaped arm patches, the
cavalry did a lot of its moving on foot. In the thick over growth that covered
much of South Vietnam, a vehicle of any type could be a liability, a fact US
forces quickly learned the hard way.

On their first patrol into the
green, Ryan and Taylor’s unit was caught by surprise and hit hard. The fierce
fighting, often close enough to make out the enemy’s frightening crooked sneer,
cost the lives of a raw Lieutenant, both platoon leaders, and several young
men. They were pinned down and desperate. Acting
on instincts and training, Ryan radioed in an artillery strike on their
position. The result was a costly victory and a field promotion for his quick
thinking and action. Ryan reluctantly accepted command of his own platoon, much
to the ribbing of his friend Kurt.

“Hey, you gonna hold up that tree
all day?” It was PFC Washington. His words brought Ryan’s thoughts to the problems
at hand. They were approaching base. He jogged through the sheets of rain,
catching up to the others. Sgt. Ryan signaled and his men stopped, squatting
behind available cover. Corporal Hunt un-slung the radio he carried.

Outpost Tango Two-Nine-Five was
located atop a low hill. It commanded a view of the valley and the single dirt
road that wound its way through the jungle. The small compound, consisting of
partially buried buildings and twin lookout towers, was surrounded by four rows
of alternating chain fence and concertina wire. Anti-personnel fragmentation
mines were scattered in-between. Beyond that a one hundred yard killing field
had been cleared.

“Yogi, this is Papa Bear. What’s for
lunch? Repeat, what is for lunch?”

“Order me a large pepperoni with
extra cheese,” a voice said into Ryan’s unoccupied ear. The whites of Kurt’s
eyes contrasted sharply against the chocolate pupils and dark, smeared grease
paint. He wore the same familiar toothy grin.

Ryan smiled back, shook his head and
shooed Kurt away, trying to think of the counter-sign. Even in the green, Kurt
could be counted on to make you laugh.

“Picnic baskets,” Ryan said finally,
“picnic baskets. Over…”

“Acknowledged… over.”

“Papa Bear, this is Yogi. Visual
now, over...” With that Ryan nodded to PFC Johnson. The private lobbed an olive
drab colored canister into the clearing.

“Yogi, this is Papa Bear. I have green
smoke at eight o’clock. Repeat… green smoke, over…”

“Confirmed, over…”

“Yogi, this is Papa Bear. Welcome
home, over and out.”

Ryan let out a long sigh and passed
the handset back to Corporal Hunt. He looked over to Kurt who had removed his
helmet. His dirty blonde hair was flattened and stuck out to the sides, below
the impression left by the leather head band. Ryan couldn’t help but laugh. It
was the worst case of hat head he’d ever seen.

Despite the dirt and grease paint
and the stark realities of bloody combat, Ryan realized his friend still
possessed the eager expression and questioning eyes of a young boy. Sitting
there in the rain, they could have been playing war games in Kurt’s back yard.

Mike Ryan met Kurt Taylor in Miss
Sherbet’s fourth grade class at St. Pius X Catholic School. Fresh out of
college, the attractive teacher with the funny name sat the boys next to each
other, touching off a friendship and rivalry that defied understanding. To the
casual observer it seemed the only thing the pair had in common was a strong
proclivity for mischief.

Kurt was wild, funny, outgoing and
studious. Coming from a large poor family, everything he owned was second hand.
Tall, thin and lanky, he always struggled to fit into clothes that were either
too big or too small. The humorous appearance only accented his comical antics
and natural ability to make people laugh.

Mike was upper middle class. His
father’s job as supervisor at a local plant brought the family to a comfortable
home in the suburbs. While his older sister was a straight A student, Mike was
more interested in exploring the world around him than his school books. Quiet
and shy, the short youngster with the deeply mysterious cow eyes was often
picked on by the other kids. He never let their taunts bother him, preferring
his Hot Rod magazines and model cars to Cub Scouts and board games. This didn’t
prevent him from getting into his share of trouble.

Mike Ryan hated the strict
atmosphere of catholic school and the boring, repetitive teaching methods. He
often skipped class, idling away hours wandering through a nearby junk yard.
Mike felt a strange kinship with the forgotten vehicles he claimed spoke to
him. With flair and imagination, he created histories and stories for each of
the lonely wrecks.

When the two boys met it was like
oil and vinegar: keep them well shook and you have an unbeatable combination.
Both youths knew exactly how to keep their friendship well shaken. It was in
Miss. Sherbet’s class that they met Carol Sawyer.

Fair skinned, precocious and already
developing, Carol was a good student with a keen wit and an inquisitive nature.
And she actually liked boys, something rare in a nine year old girl. Carol
found Mike a prince charming, even if his steed was an off white. They shared
interests in music, baseball and the emerging race for space. She especially
enjoyed Mike’s knowledge of cars and the stories he made up about them. Years
later, those stories would be the basis for Carol’s first novel. The two drew
close as time passed. Despite attending different high schools they remained a
couple.

Actually, Kurt was the first to take
notice of pretty, indigo eyed Carol. She sat behind him in class and delighted
in irritating him by gently blowing on the back of his neck. However, it wasn’t
long before he found himself the reluctant middle man in a lopsided love
triangle, passing notes between Carol and Mike, always with a sarcastic remark.

Kurt would often deliberately read a
particularly interesting looking note from the lightly freckled girl, knowing
it made Mike furious. The resulting dispute usually climaxed at recess in a
dramatic and funny duel with water pistols, and detention for Kurt, Mike and
Carol.

Ignoring his bad boy reputation,
Carol’s mom took an instant liking to Mike. One afternoon after school, over
milk and Oreo cookies, she revealed that he reminded her of Carol’s dad.
Carol’s eyes gleamed dreamily. Mike recognized something in them that gave him
a shiver.

It was a warm spring day in the sixth
grade. Mike remembered it like it was yesterday: Friday, May 18. The boys were
swimming in the Ryan backyard pool. Mike had bought a friendship ring for Carol
and Kurt was riding Mike hard, teasing him mercilessly.

“Ok, lover boy, it took you long enough
to save the five bucks for that hunk of tin,” Kurt teased. “Now all you gotta
do is find the courage to give it to her.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking
about,” Mike countered. “I’m gonna give it to her Saturday afternoon at the
movies.”

Studying the silver plated ring, he
wondered if he indeed did have the courage. Mike was in love with Carol. He
knew it that afternoon eating Oreo cookies with her mom. The look in Carol’s
eyes, and the kinda sickly way it had made him feel, told him so. It took years
for him to admit it to himself. Saturday afternoon, somewhere between the Road
Runner cartoon and the attack of the flying saucers, he was going to admit it
to Carol; and show her with the ring from Woolworths.

Mike swallowed hard. He felt like
the Coyote. He knew he was running off the cliff but he just couldn’t stop.
Smiling to himself Mike wondering what the fall would be like.

“Not if you don’t have it you
can’t!” Kurt snatched the ring and dashed off, Mike in hot pursuit.

They chased each other around the
pool, Kurt laughing, Mike hurling names, swearing revenge. Then Kurt slipped on
the wet cement. Striking his head on the side of the pool, he tumbled into the
deep end. Mike dove in and reached the unconscious boy before he hit bottom.

In the hospital, Mike was hailed as
a hero for saving his friend’s life. Kurt joked he would never leave Mike’s
side till he could even the score. Making good his promise, when Mike received
his induction notice Kurt volunteered for the draft. Fate, and the army, kept
the boys together.

Platoons assigned to a forward base
went out on patrols in rotation. Excursions in-country could last five to ten
days, followed by five days rest. Depending on manpower, base personnel were
rotated after three months and then reassigned. Most forward posts were staffed
by a mix of A.R.V.N. troops – Army of the Republic of Vietnam – and US forces.

Sgt. Mike Ryan and Spec. 4th
Class Kurt Taylor were in their third month at forward outpost Tango Two Nine Five.
They would pull one more patrol and then head to Saigon or Cameron Bay for some
rest and relaxation. If they were lucky they might even score a few days on the
sugar white beaches of Thailand.

The week passed quickly. Kurt’s mom
sent the boys a big box of homemade chocolate chip cookies. Mike received a
letter from Carol. It smelled like orange blossoms and the envelope and paper
were peppered with pink and red hearts. Kurt didn’t miss the opportunity to
tease his friend.

The letter contained a photograph of
Carol in a revealing two piece red swim suit. She stood beside the Dodge
convertible. Her sun lightened hair now reached to her elbows. Ryan ran a
finger over the image, his eyes welling up. Then he laughed. If Carol could see
him he knew she’d ask who the tears were for, her or the car.

It had been quiet… too quiet.

The more experienced men knew things
didn’t stay quiet for long. The holidays were coming. Charlie liked nothing
better than to ruin Thanksgiving and Christmas for homesick GIs. On Monday
morning Ryan received orders; they were headed back in-country.

An armored personnel carrier had
been abandoned due to mechanical problems. It sat some thirty klicks north in
an area the army declared secure. Ryan was to lead two squads and retrieve the
vehicle. If it couldn’t be recovered he was to destroy it… simple.

The rain let up, the humidity
lingered. Steam rising from the thick green foliage cast an eerie smoke grey
fog, cutting visibility. Securing his perimeter, Sgt. Ryan set about deciding
what to do with the stricken APC. He always felt bad when he had to destroy a
vehicle. But he knew it was better than letting it fall into Charlie’s skillful
hands. They would make use of whatever they could remove. Or they might bobby
trap it for unsuspecting patrols.

Ryan became aware of the sudden
silence. Then the jungle came alive with small arms fire. Ryan threw himself
into a shallow mortar crater. A skinny GI with a toothy grin landed next to him
with a thud.

“Jeez, Kurt, you scared me! What the
hell is going on? I thought this place was secure?”

“Well,” Kurt replied over the
intermittent din of automatic weapons, “I would say the US Army has a strange
concept of the meaning of the word secure.”

“How bad…?”

Kurt’s demeanor turned sullen. “Hunt
took one. He’ll be alright, the radio won’t. Charlie is to the north, west and
south maybe.”

“How many…?”

“Too many, we’re holding… but if
they get behind us…” He didn’t have to finish.

“Damn… ok…” Ryan’s orders came fast,
automatically. “Have the men fall back to a tight perimeter around this spot.
Have them set fraggers. I want you to take four men, secure the trail out of
here. I’ll take care of the APC. Let me know when you are set. Go!”

Kurt nodded and took off,
zigzagging, keeping low to the ground. Mike Ryan watched his friend disappear
into the thicket. Several rounds clipped the growth above Kurt’s head.

Ryan could hear movement from all
sides. He prayed it was his own men. With two satchels of C-4, Sgt. Ryan
crawled the short distance to the APC. There was no time for anything fancy.
Working franticly, he did his best to conceal the explosive around the drive
sprocket, along the track, and in the engine compartment and driver’s controls.
Carefully inserting the primers, Ryan made his way back to some fallen trees,
leaving a trail of thin wire. He found Kurt waiting for him.

“Everything is set, boss, just say
the word.”

Just then a muffled explosion ripped
through the jungle to the right, followed by several gut wrenching screams. An
anti-personnel mine had done its deadly job, taking out several VC.

Then all hell broke loose.

Branches and leaves shattered in a
hail of bullets. Ryan and Taylor hugged the wet ground. An eternity later the
air, tinged with smoke and cordite, turned deadly quiet. Ryan knew Charlie
might be getting set to attack.

“Ok, it’s the APC they’re interested
in, not us. Get the men out of here two by two, now.”

Kurt grinned his boyish grin. “Just
like Noah’s Ark,” and he was gone.

Ryan checked the clip in his M-16.
He watched the clearing ahead. Sure enough, the bushes beyond the doomed
vehicle began to move.

“C’mon kiddies,” he said to himself,
“come and get it.” His finger twitched over the curved leaver of the detonator.

The APC began to look like an ant
hill, swarmed over by eager workers. Jeez,
how many were there? Ryan thought he counted maybe twenty.

“Secure my ass!” Ryan cursed under
his breath.

Fortunately, he was right. The VC
were not being careful. They probably thought the American GI’s had retreated.
Instead of attacking, they surrounded the APC. Several crawled inside. Ryan
shook his head. He thought of the junk yard he escaped to when ditching school.
Images of twisted chrome bumpers and mangled rusting fenders tore through his
mind.

“Sorry old girl.” He pushed the
plunger of the detonator home.

Nothing.

“Damn it!”

Risking a look, he saw the problem.
A stray bullet had severed one of the two detonator wires. If he didn’t act
fast Charlie would discover the explosives and remove the primers.

Leaving his M-16, Ryan slithered
over the fallen trees. The cut wire was in reach. Stripping the insulation with
his teeth, he twisted the bare ends together.

So far, so good.

He scurried back over the logs.
Someone shouted. Shots whizzed all around. Ryan felt a burning sensation in his
right calf. He tumbled behind cover, the wind going out of him. It felt as if
someone had grabbed hold of his leg, tossing him to the ground like a bundle of
newspapers.

“You looking for this?” Kurt lay
next to him holding the detonator. The mischievous smile Ryan knew too well
beamed at him.

“What the hell are you waiting for,
Christmas?”

“No… Fourth of July,” Kurt replied
and hit the plunged.

The force of the explosion rocked
the ground. Both men covered in a fetal position. Dirt, rocks, bits of metal
and rubber and body parts rained down. As the dust cleared, Kurt stole a peak.

“Nice work… you always did have a
knack for destroying things. Remember my old bicycle… Oh, shit!”

Kurt ducked. A second later he
popped up again. Kneeling on one knee, he began firing, his M-16 locked on full
automatic. Mike tried to rise. His leg wouldn’t move. For the first time he
became aware of a biting pain below his right knee. Dropping the spent rifle,
Kurt pulled the pins on two hand grenades. Three VC appeared atop the logs.
Three smoking Russian made automatic weapons starred down at the two friends.

Kurt tossed the deadly explosives
into the air and flung himself on top of Mike.

Mike Ryan awoke in a white room that
smelled of an odd mix of disinfectant and orange blossoms. A dull pain throbbed
in the back of his head. Slowly, his eyes began to focus. He wore a pair of
navy pajamas with white piping. He lay in bed on his back. Tubes ran from his
arm and nose. His head was bandaged as was his right leg which hung in a sling.

An angel with golden hair hovered
over him.

A soft, familiar voice filled the
room. “Well, look who finally woke up. Welcome back, solider.” Carol stood next
to the bed. Mike tried to sit up but the movement sent a shock of pain through
his body.

“Easy there, baby.” As Carol leaned
forward, the silver friendship ring Mike gave her in the sixth grade dangled
from a chain around her neck. She fluffed the pillows and helped him into a
comfortable position. Her touch immediately eased some of the pain.

Mike could tell from the faint
circles Carol had been crying. He looked at her, recalling the first time he
saw her in Miss Sherbert’s fourth grade class. She looked cute in her school
jumper. Now, dressed in fresh jeans, a cream colored turtle neck and boots, she
was as beautiful as ever.

Carol’s hair hung long and loose.
Their last night together she’d vowed not to cut it till he returned safely to
her. It now reached the small of her back. Ryan touched his bandaged head,
looking into Carol’s damp eyes. His mouth was dry, his throat sore as he tried
to speak. “Where… where… what…?”

She kissed his hand and pressed it
to her cheek. Mike felt the moisture of a tear. “You’ve been in and out… mostly
out… for over two weeks. They took shrapnel out of your head and patched up a
bullet hole in your leg.” She forced a smile. “The doctors said you may dance
funny but you are going to be fine.”

She brushed a tear.

“You’re a hero Mike. Some military
brass and a reporter came by this morning and left these.” Pinned to the pillow
were two medals: the Distinguished Service Cross and a Purple Heart.

Mike didn’t understand. He tried to
think; remember. Carol held a glass and he took some juice. Over the next hour
Mike related the story of the fateful patrol: the APC, how they were ambushed, and
how Kurt shielded him from the two grenades with his own body. Carol listened
carefully. When he finished her pretty face showed concern.

Carol’s voice was patient, steady.
“Oh, honey, you’re mistaken. It must be the concussion.” She touched his cheek,
her other hand cupping the ring on the chain. Tears escaped the corner of her
eyes. “Don’t you remember? Sweetheart, Kurt drowned. Mike, Kurt’s been gone for
over seven years. You saved your platoon that day.”

Sgt. Mike Ryan was discharged from
the Army with all the honors befitting a hero. A couple of weeks later he left
the hospital.

On a cold December morning, Carol
and Mike drove over to the small cemetery near the town where they grew up. In
a corner, beneath an old maple tree, lay a carefully manicured plot with a
polished marble marker. Mike knelt down, running his fingers over the deeply
carved inscription.

Kurt Christopher Thomas

July 4, 1950 – May 18, 1962

Taking the Purple Heart from his
pocket, he laid the medal on the headstone next to Kurt’s name.

Friday, October 24, 2014

Just in time for Halloween! Here is my popular horror story Satan's Blood in its frightening entirety. It has scared millions, appearing in several magazines, but as a thank you to all of my loyal readers, I am presenting it here as a free read. Enjoy, and please be kind and share the love (and the horror!). By the way, I suggest you read it with a friend... with all of the lights on!
Happy Halloween!!!
BJ

My current address reads Atlanta
Federal Penitentiary, Atlanta, Georgia. I’m doing a five year bit for drug possession.
The feds enhanced my sentence because I was caught carrying a gun. A stupid
little chrome Berretta .25 more suited for a woman’s purse. The damn thing
didn’t even belong to me. It was my girlfriend Anna’s. She insisted I take it
along. You never know what kind of weirdos and low life you’re gonna’ run into
these days when you are dealing.

Not like the old days.

Then, a little weed, a couple of
blotters of acid, some Boone’s Farm apple and its peace and free love for
everyone. If you were lucky some cutie hippie chick in torn jeans and tie-died
halter would invite you to join the party. Hell, you didn’t even have to smoke.
Just take a deep pull of the Maui-wowie atmosphere and chill to the Dead.

Not today.

Today you meet some hyped up street
thug who is shakin’ so bad you could use him to mix paint. And you know he’s
packin’, too. As are his two homies sitting in the purple juke box with the 20”
rims across the street. As is the skinny chick in the blown afro and hot pants.
As is the prismatic pimp leaning on the light pole, she’s rubbin’ against. As
is the old dude in dirty Tee shirt and suspenders, leaning out the third floor
window, watching as daddy shakes-a-lot stands in front of you trying to count
his Benjamins.

Actually, I’m anything but a
drug dealer. Sure, I sell a few tabs of ecstasy and maybe a tiny amount of
coke. But I’m small potatoes. Very small. One or two buys a month max, just to
supplement my income as a free lance photographer. Man, I don’t even use the
stuff. Not since Carter went back to being a peanut farmer and disco crawled
back into the slimy pit it slithered from. Honest. It’s strictly a business.
These days you do what you have to do to survive. Am I right?

The gun charge also upped the ante
and landed me in a federal pen instead of a low or medium facility. Thanks,
Anna. Being in prison is bad enough. Pens are the worse, and Atlanta is the
worse of the worse.

Built over a hundred years ago,
Atlanta has maintained it’s hard as nails reputation as well as its foreboding
appearance. Other joints have been remodeled, modernized, updated or torn down.
Not Atlanta. Indoor plumbing, running water and electricity are its only
concessions to civilization. Even the tall battlements capped with gun towers
were left unchanged. Together with the rough stone construction, they give the
place a medieval feel. Like something out of the Marquis de Sade’s nightmares.

This is the place that broke the
likes of Al Capone. Alcatraz must have seemed like a picnic after Atlanta. Here
James Cagney and Edward G Robinson get the chair in old black and white flicks.
This is the place no convict wants to go. In the entire world there is no more desperate
place than Atlanta Federal Prison.

I rolled restlessly in my bunk. The
hard plastic mattress crackled like fire, beneath me. I have two years and two
months left on my sentence as of today. The crude calendar etched into the
bottom of the bunk above told me so. I took the homemade scribe and marked off
another day, then returned it to its hiding place. The scribe is only an inch
and a half long, made of soft aluminum scrounged from a wall rivet, and barely
sharp enough to scratch the flaking layers of decades old paint. But it’s
considered contraband. If you are caught with it, and if the guards aren’t in a
good humor, it could be considered a weapon. Then you find yourself in the hole
for thirty days. And when you get out some of your hard earned good time has
evaporated into thin air. And here at Atlanta the guards are rarely in a good
humor.

Actually, five years isn’t too bad a
stretch these days. And for a place like Atlanta it’s a walk in the park. The
sad reality is many of these guys will never again see a sunset that isn’t
crosshatched with chain link and razor wire.

I handed him up the small, overpriced
Sonny Walkman that’s sold on commissary. Nathan’s not a bad kid, for a
murderer. When he was nineteen he knifed a guy during a botched drug deal. That
was five years ago. He’s looking at twenty five more.

There is a kind of perverse
unwritten code among inmates; a status and pecking order. Take Nathan for
example. According to the code, anybody can shoot a person. It takes balls and
nerves of nails to gut a man up close. Nathan is shown respect and fear. Even
by some of the guards. I know he’s just a scared kid surviving the only way he
knows how, in a world he didn’t create and doesn’t understand. Then again,
aren’t we all?

“Thanks, School.” Nathan settled in
above me. I could hear the vulgar, repetitive hip hop lyrics hammering out of
the tiny ear buds. I wondered which would blow first, the cheap speakers or his
ear drums.

Inmates speak a language all their
own. Anyone over forty is School as in old school. It’s a term of
respect. For the most part the older guys are looked up to and treated well by
the other inmates. I’m fifty-four and white, a definite minority in the system.
For the last few years the feds have busied themselves trolling the city sewers
for serious offenders. Mostly what they’ve caught are street punks in their
teens and twenties. Obnoxious and usually illiterate, toss them in with harden,
older criminals who are only interested in doing their time quietly, and you’ve
got the makings of real trouble.

To make matters worse, the system is
overcrowded to the max. Three men in two man cells isn't unusual, especially
when you heard in a bunch of temporary hold overs. That was the situation this
Monday night.

Lights had been out for about ninety
minutes when the door to my cell creaked open. A tattered green mattress hit
the floor. It was followed by an old wool army blanket and a stained sheet. A
lanky figure in orange overalls three sizes too big for his needle frame stood
silhouetted, as the guard removed his handcuffs.

“You can’t treat me like this,” he
screamed in a cracked, scratchy voice.

The solid steel door slammed shut
with the heavy ominous metallic clunk common to jail and prison cell doors
everywhere. The stranger gave the door an ineffectual kick and cursed.

“Welcome to the block.” Nathan had
one ear bud out and was hanging out of his bunk like a hungry vulture. “Whats
you gots for me, homie?”

“What?” The stranger turned. Gold
shone from between two fleshy lips in the dim light. “Whats you say, boy?”

The first thing every con does when
he hits a new facility is try to establish his toughness, his manliness, his
street cool. Peacocks struttin’, it’s always ninety-five percent show and five
percent blow. It’s a prison ritual as old as prison itself.

The stranger grunted and looked down
at me. “And what’s your friggin’ problem?”

I stared back up at him, “Three men
in a cell for starters.”

He kicked at the mattress then
turned around and punched the cell door harder than he meant. Stifling a
chuckle, I could see the grimace on his face in the pale yellow moonlight
filtering in through the small window.

“Yeah, well, I ain’t doing this!” he
barked, then raised his voice. “You hear me you dumb ass bastards, I ain’t
doing this!” And he kicked the door again.

“Hold it down,” I said. “You’re
disturbing the rats.”

The stranger spun around, his eyes
searchlights in the dark. “Rats? They ain’t said nothin’ ‘bout no rats!”

“It ain’t the two legged kind,” I
said.

“And it ain’t the rats you gots to
worry about, pops,” Nathan quipped and let out a sick giggle.

Our guest noisily settled down,
making himself at home on the concrete floor. I was still awake an hour later
when the scratching started. Almost imperceptible at first, it grew louder,
closer.

“What’s that?” There was fear in the
stranger’s voice.

“I told you, rats.”

“You was serious about that, boss?”

I turned over. The stranger was
sitting up in the middle of his mattress, the blanket clutched at his throat.
He looked like a frightened little girl who had just heard the boogie man.

Maybe he wasn’t
that far off.

“Relax. They seldom come in here. If
one does just throw your shoe at it,” I replied.

In the cell’s dim twilight I could
see the stranger was close to my age. He wore a short nappy afro, graying at
the temples. His large nose had been broken more than once and an ugly hook
shaped scar marked his left cheek. The air in the cell was cool, but sweat
beaded his grooved forehead as he tried to settle back down. His road mapped
eyes remained fixed on the large gap at the bottom of the cell door.

“Don’t worry,” I teased, “they don’t
eat much.”

The stranger sucked in a shock of
air and grabbed for his shoe.

The scratching continued. It echoed
off the drab green painted walls. I could hear the stranger breathing on the
floor next to me. Nathan’s words rang in my head: it ain’t the rats yous
gots to worry about.

More scratching.

Closer.

Instinctively, I reached down and
tucked the trailing blanket into the sides of my mattress. Parents tuck their
children in snugly, telling them to keep their arms and legs under the covers.
It breeds a sense of fear into them. A fear of what lurks under the bed. It
wasn’t what might be under my bunk that frightened me.

A clatter of chains rattled down the
hall: the guards making their count.

Midnight.

The stranger shuffled nervously.

Every inmate hears the story of
Satan’s Blood his first week here. The story varies, grows with detail and
intensity…and gore…depending on who’s doing the telling. But the basic,
grizzly, unfathomable true facts remain the same.

October 31,
1934 4:35 PM

Roger Zaha wore an oversized chip on
his shoulder like a medal of honor. He was angry. Angry at life for the lousy
trick it played on him. At least that’s how Roger Zaha saw things.

For seven long thankless years he
worked as a guard at Atlanta Federal Penitentiary. The work was honest and
steady. It provided an ample living for his wife and son.

But Roger Zaha was a malcontent.

He grew up hard and fast in
Atlanta’s toughest tenement. Everything Zaha ever had he fought and scratched
to gain. He clawed his way up to a respectable job and position in a clean,
quiet community. It was the height of the Depression and a man couldn’t ask for
more.

Zaha resented the other guards. None
of them had gone through what he did, Depression or no Depression. Yet here he
was, almost thirty, and no better off than the rest of them. He hated them for
it. And he didn’t bother to conceal his anger.

He was the one who pulled himself up
out of nothing. He was the one who made something out of himself. It was time
he got what he deserved.

“Hey, Zaha!”

The words came from cell F66.
Molech’s cell. Zaha worked in a section of the prison known as the tombs. Here
the worst offenders remained caged in their 8x10 cells twenty-four hours a day.
None would ever be returned to society. Ahriman Molech was the worse of them
all. Molech had coldly immolated his three young children, burning the house
down around them while they slept, just to collect the insurance.

“Zaha, come here.”

Molech’s voice was crushed glass in
velvet, sibilant. Yet it cut through your ears like razors. His shale black
eyes were the devil’s own, never looking at you but piercing straight through
your flesh. When he spoke, you felt the gelid fingers of his breath on your
throat.

“Halloween, Zaha. You know witches,
goblins, and the undead.” He let out a laugh that chilled the guard. “Wouldn’t
you like to be with your kid?”

“Leave it alone, Molech,” Zaha
replied angrily. He rapped the cell bars with the end of his wooden shillelagh.

Molech’s sneer grew. “I know what
you want, Zaha. I know what you think, what you dream.”

“You don’t know nothing.”

The dim cell light cast Molech’s
shadow large and misshapen on the rough stone wall. To Zaha it looked like a
hulking beast ready to strike.

“I know you’re right,” Molech said.
He paused and leaned closer. “You’re better than these illiterate monkeys who
prowl around here in their starched uniforms like zombies, much better than
them.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I can help you. I can arrange it so
you never have to work again…ever.” Molech’s exaggerated face jutted between
the bars. His voice hissed in Zaha’s ear. “Think about it, Zaha. Everything you
need brought right to you…laid at your feet. You won’t have a thing to worry
about.” Molech’s words were sure and quiet as a prayer at midnight. “I can give
you what you want…”

“You’re crazy as a loon, Molech! How
can you do anything for me?”

Molech laughed again then squinted
at the guard. “What’s the matter, Zaha? What are you afraid of? You got nothing
to lose, except this crummy job. Got no faith in your dreams, Zaha? Afraid of
what they may cost you?”

Zaha reared back and spat on the
floor of the cell. “I ain’t afraid of nothin’! Do you hear that, Molech,
nothin’!” he barked, shaking the shillelagh. “You’re as crazy as they come!”
Zaha gathered himself and stared back into Molech’s serpentine eyes. “But I’ll
tell you something, Molech. I ain’t crazy…no, sir. But for what you
said…why…I’d pay any price…any price in hell!”

Molech relaxed back from the bars,
the crooked grin melting into a satisfied smile.

The next morning Roger Zaha awoke to
a nightmare. He was dressed in prison fatigues and stood behind the bars of a
cell. Cell F66.

“What’s the matter, Zaha?” A voice
from one of the cells called out. “Don’t like the accommodations?”

“Oh, he’s too good for this,” a
passing guard snapped back.

Another laughed. “Yeah, don’t you
know…Zaha’s better than us!”

“Not anymore he ain’t!”

The cell block erupted in hoots and
shouts and laughter. Tin cups raked and rattled against iron bars. Zaha covered
his ears from the rising din. “This can’t be real…it can’t be…”

When he looked up, a uniformed guard
stood outside his cell. But it wasn’t a guard, it was Ahriman Molech! Zaha
lunged at him, grasping through the bars. Molech laughed and turned aside.

“Never have to work again,” he said.
His voice was icy and hollow. “Everything you need laid at your feet…at your
feet, Zaha!” Molech’s footsteps clattered down the hall, the shillelagh rapping
against one iron bar after another, his laughter dissolving in the distance.
Just before he disappeared out of sight, Molech raised an arm, snapping his
fingers.

At that moment a piece of paper
floated down into cell F66. Zaha snatched it up in mid-air. It was a newspaper
clipping dated Friday, January 18, 1935. Zaha’s hands trembled as he read:

(Atlanta,
GA) Roger Zaha, the man known as

the Halloween butcher, began his life sentence

today at the federal penitentiary here in

Atlanta, the same place he had worked as a

guard. After a sensational trial, Zaha, 29, was

found guilty of the brutal Halloween night

murder of his five year old son, Roger Jr. Zaha

allegedly used a butcher’s knife to dismember

the boy’s body before burning it to conceal the

crime. During the trial, a police spokesman

testified that the cellar walls of Zaha’s Fulton

County home were splattered with the child’s

blood. Unconfirmed sources have stated Zaha

told police he sacrificed his son to appease Satan,

making vague references to Leviticus 20 and

Jeremiah 19 in the Old Testament.

The scream reverberated throughout
the prison: the echoing howl of a banshee; the plaintive bay of a wolf caught
in a steel trap; the cries of a thousand faceless tortured souls; the tormented
scream of a madman.

The inhuman screams continued
through the night. In the morning Zaha was found in a heap on his cell floor.
His bones were broken. His body was covered in thick crimson welts, and ugly
festering purple and black bruises, and dozens of deep cuts and gashes. It was
as if some sinister hand had thrown him about like a rag doll. Dark rust red
colored blood was splattered across the cell walls.

Roger Zaha recovered. He spent the
rest of his life in cell F66. He didn’t work. Everything he needed was brought
to him, just as Ahriman Molech promised.

Zaha died in 1974, still vehemently
claiming his innocence. Shortly after, inmates began to mysteriously disappear
throughout the prison.

Eighteen to date.

Since that January night in 1935,
Atlanta Federal Penitentiary’s halls echo with torturous screams. And its cold
stone walls run rich with the dark rust red inmates call Satan’s Blood.

October 31,
2000 2:25 AM

The scratching continued.

Waxed louder.

Closer.

I could feel the presence of a pair
of cold, unblinking eyes. They stared out from a shadowy corner; searched the
dusky light for an errant cornflake or a few stray bread crumbs.

It’s nothing.

You get used to the nightly
scratching and prowling after a while. Some of the guys save their breakfast
cereal to feed the rats.

Like I said, it’s no big deal.

Unless the scratching stops.

The scratching stopped after a time.
There was a frantic flurry of nails trying to gain traction on the slick,
painted cement floor. A few feckless squeals.

From the position of his voice I
could tell he was sitting up again, probably huddled in the middle of his
mattress, the blanket clutched at his throat.

I wanted to speak, say something.
Tell him: no, it’s not ok, ‘cause when the rats run away…

A dry terror crawled up my throat,
silencing my words, stitching my lips together. Above me, Nathan folded himself
into a tight ball. I knew he was facing the wall, covers pulled over his head,
an unavailing defense against the unknown. His usual position when the
scratching stopped and the rats ran away.

I knew the position too well.

Boisterous hip hop blared from the
tiny ear buds. Nathan had cranked the Walkman’s volume. As if music could drown
the fear. From beneath my own covers I cursed for not keeping the radio myself.

The first scream is always the
worse. No matter how many you experience. The piercing shriek grabs you by the
balls. It squeezes so tightly the back of your brain aches, like the first
stabs of the mother of all migraines.

I knew the stranger wanted to say
something, maybe scream himself. He shuffled nervously on the floor. Fear had
stitched his lips together as well.

If you are not too terrified to
listen – if you dare listen at all – you might discern a voice in the truculent
wailing:

“Molech!”

Shrill. Strained. Raspy.

“Molech!”

Tortured. As if imparting pain.

Another twisted howl rent the
stagnant air. Then the pounding began, far down the hall.

“Molech!” Blam!

Hollow. Metallic.

Searching.

“Molech! Blam!

Closer. Four cells down.

“Molech!” Blam!

Three cells…

…two…

A low, algid fog crept into the
cell, like the Avenging Angel.

“Sweet, Holy Jesus.” The solicitous
stranger’s whispered prayer floated up from the floor next to me.

“Molech!”

Blam!

The pounding thundered, as if we
were trapped inside the breech of discharging cannon.

Blam!

Lights flickered on at five AM. The
food traps in the cell doors hammered open one by one. Footsteps scuffled
outside the cell.

“Hey, I thought there were three in
here?”

Bleary eyed I accepted the plastic
trays from the guard. On the cell floor lay the tattered mattress, old army
blanket and stained sheet.

And one lone shoe.

Trembling, I passed a tray up to
Nathan.

“The marshals’ probably yanked his
ass up out of here during the night,” another guard replied. “You know how the
feds operate, they never tell us anything.”

Nathan and I ate our cold cereal and
hard, butter less toast in silence.